


The Best Medicine's Kinda Messy

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets a cold, Castiel freaks out, and everybody gets better in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Medicine's Kinda Messy

My fever spikes outside of Abilene and Sam insists that we stop.

Even though I'm fine, really; just need a few hours to sweat it out and ramble in the backseat, but no. Mr. Consistency, Mr. Constant, Mr. You Need to Slow the Fuck Down and Take Care of Yourself, Asshole--he's goddamn certain that I can only get better in a bed, that I need pillows and warm blankets and hot tea and a _Law and Order_ marathon in order to heal.

And it doesn't help that Cas has never seen a human with a cold before, because he's acting like I'm gonna die and nodding his head quickfast to every suggestion that Sam makes.

They have a conversation about expectorants and phlegm that I'm gonna have to actively repress.

God.

Cas manhandles me into the room and Sam strips me off, folds me into several million layers of clothes, and, together, they get me good and engulfed in the sheets. Sam chucks another blanket over the whole mess and tucks it up around my chin, pulls the hood of the sweatshirt over my head until only my eyes are showing, and tells Cas to stay there, right the fuck there, while he makes a run to CVS.

And Captain Literal doesn't move, hovers at the edge of the bed, peering into my face like he's waiting for me to explode.

I open my mouth to bitch him out but start hacking instead, these huge heaves that ricochet in my chest, that hurt, goddamn it, and hell, maybe Cas was right to worry, because it feels like the top of my head is about to fly off, and ow, son-of-a-bitch!

I try to sit up and Cas slides in behind me, pushes his chest into my back and holds my sides as I cough, as I try to catch my breath even as it scurries away, screaming, until I get a little scared, until it starts to feel like drowning, and then Cas says: "Shhh, Dean. It's ok. Relax. I've got you. Just relax."

And he's right: once I stop fighting, stop flailing and just let the hacking run its course, I'm ok, I'm alright. I'm ok. I'm alright.

Cas rubs little circles in my sweatshirt, touches muted by fucking mountains of cloth, but it's good. It helps.

He tucks his head against the back of my neck, still rubbing, and I lean back, let him take all my weight, because I know he can.

It may be the fever talking, but I swear I hear him singing, low notes without any words that sink into my spine, make me feel safe. Make me feel loved.

After a while he does a cool cat curl and slides away, stretches me out in the same motion and resets the blankets. He perches on the side of the bed, his hip nudging mine, and runs his fingers over my forehead. And I must be sick, because even his grace feels cold against my skin.

I sleep.

**

Sam wakes me up at some point, makes me drink some horrible tasting crap and shoves a thermometer under my tongue. I try to spit it back and curse but all that comes out is a rumble, a mew that barely registers.

I don't bother to open my eyes.

The thermometer beeps and Sam draws it away, lets my mouth fall free.

"102," he mutters. "Jesus Christ, Dean. Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

I feel Cas--hey, Cas is still there--shift against my side.

"He does not like asking for help," he says, unhelpfully.

I hear Sam huff. "Not exactly a newsflash, Cas."

I turn my head, try to bury my head in the pillows, drown out the sound of their voices, and I realize that Cas is right next to me. Under the covers, his hand sliding over my chest, his head on my shoulder.

"Shhh," he whispers. "Dean. Go back to sleep."

So I do.

**

I don't know how long I sleep this time. I have flashes in my dreams of more medicine, more jabs of metal in my mouth, more music falling from an angel's lips.

And more bitching. Courtesy of Sam.

But I don't wake up all the way for a long time. Manage to stay under the blankets the meds and Cas and sleep. Just fucking sleep for what feels like ages, acres of time between me and the bedspread.

When I come back, come all the way back to myself, I'm disgusting: sweaty and damp and covered in drops of cold medicine and Gatorade and what I sincerely hope is chicken soup.

Cas is on his back beside me, snoring just a little, these dark hitches of breath that are the soundtrack to my dreams, most nights.

I slide out as easy as I can. Don't want to wake him. See Sasquatch passed out on the other queen, curled into himself, still in his jeans and his flannel.

Makes my heart skip in my chest, seeing that. He looks so fucking young, giant limbs or no.

I make it to the bathroom which, hey, is seriously nice, and oh, wow: Sam must of sprung for a decent hotel, because the free shampoo is freaking heavenly and the towels aren't made of sandpaper.

I stand under the hard hot spray and just breathe.

I'm still stuffy, my chest still hurts a little, but the fever's gone.

I'm back, baby.

I shuffle out into the room, root around for some decent clothes. Cas is awake, his face turned towards me as I stumble into a clean pair of jeans, pulls a couple of clean shirts over my head.

He's smiling, that little half-twitch of his lips that I kind of live for, most days.

"Hi," I say, quiet. One eye still on Sam.

He sits up, throws back the covers, and goddamn, is he a fucking wreck. His shirt his pants one giant wrinkle and he hasn't shaved and his hair is crazy, but he's smiling, reaching for me.

And even though I just crawled out of there and I know the sheets must be gross, I go right to him, let him pull me down, let him kiss me loud and a little wild and if I were thinking straight, if I could, I'd tell him to tone the fuck down with Sam right there, still sleeping--but I don't. Just wind myself around him and go along for the ride.

"Uh," I say, after a long time. A little breathless. "What was that?"

He nuzzles my jaw, lets his fingers crawl under my collar.

Doesn't answer. Not at first.

"I was worried," he says, finally. His hands burning holes in my ribs. Holding me tight, like he's afraid I'll fly away. "You were ill. I could not help you. It was--disconcerting." I feel him frown against my throat. "And the remedies Sam suggested, with which he plied you, seemed--dubious at best."

"I heard that!" Sam groans. I hear the bedsprings stretch, hear his feet hit the floor.

I laugh a little, scrub my fingers against the back of Cas' neck.

"There's no cure for the common cold, Cas," I tell him. "And even the best medicine's kinda messy."

"Hmmm," he rumbles, tucking his leg over my hip, knocking our knees together.

The light dims and I look up, see Sam looming over us.

"If you two assholes are gonna make out, I'm taking a goddamn shower," he grits, but he's grinning. Looks happy and almost rested, the folds of the sheets cut into his cheek.

"We are not going to 'make out,' Sam," Cas sighs. "We are going to fuck."

"Hell yes!" I say.

"GAH!" Sam howls, making a beeline for the bathroom. "Overshare, Cas! Definite overshare."

The door slams but the sound's almost invisible, gives way to Cas' voice in my ear, the kick of his hips against my thigh.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers, his hands going for my belt. "Let me make you better, Dean."

And if I have a flash of him in a doctor's coat, a stethoscope around his neck and tongue depressors in his pocket, can you blame me?

**Author's Note:**

> A little Destiel for midnightazalea, by way of thanks.


End file.
